“You’re good at poking around,” said Roxi, and I was sure that was the wine talking.
But I let her flirtatious comment go, as usual. Maybe another day, another lifetime ago, I might have flirted back, but my days of flirting were over.
Forever.
Chapter Three
Medievaland looks like a big castle.
It was definitely not something you’d expect to see in the middle of Orange County, a county famous for its desperate housewives, beaches and, perhaps, citrus fruits.
Then again, what did I know? I lived in a small apartment in the heart of Los Angeles, an hour northwest of Orange County. Desperate housewives in my part of town didn’t make TV shows. They hired me to follow their husbands. Or find their missing kids. That was my specialty, actually. Finding the missing. Tough field. Especially when I found them dead.
Or worse.
With that said, this part of Orange County—in a place called Buena Park—reminded me a lot of Los Angeles: rough streets, graffiti, homeless and traffic. Yeah, I felt right at home.
That is, of course, until I found myself on Beach Boulevard and surrounded by a surprisingly large crowd of tourists, all here to see Knott’s Berry Farm, Ripley’s Believe It or Not, and Wild Bill’s Dinner Theater. And, of course, Medievaland.
A lot of flash for an otherwise dreary city.
I parked in the back parking lot with a smattering of other vehicles. I was early. The dinner show would start in about an hour.
The Medievaland facade is fortress-like, complete with high towers, turrets, a walkway and even a moat, which I crossed over now along the lowered drawbridge. The lowered drawbridge looked suspiciously non-functional. At the ticket window, I purchased a dinner for one, which included tonight’s tournament and a free tour of the facilities. I tried to look excited about the free tour. The girl at the ticket booth smiled at me sadly. Perhaps I had looked too excited.
Ticket in hand, I joined a handful of other guests as we were shown through a gate and into the horse stables. I didn’t know much about horses, and suspect I never would, but from what I could tell, these were particularly magnificent creatures. Each was bigger than I thought horses actually were. Yeah, I know. City boy and all that. Still, since when did they grow horses so big?
There were about ten such beasts, all different colors, although the jet-black creature at the far end seemed to hold me transfixed. I was certain he was bigger than the others. No doubt a shitload of hands high. He was watching me in return, tail swishing rhythmically, black eyes unblinking. It took a brave man—or woman—to ride that animal. After our brief stare-down, which I lost, I followed the other guests through the stable and out into the arena itself.
The floor was covered in dirt and sawdust and peanut shells. Two beams of wood ran along either side of the arena floor, where, I suspected, the knights jousted. I could think of a half-dozen other things I would rather do than ride a horse at full speed while another man pointed a spear at my chest.
The arena was larger than I’d expected. Bigger than a high school gymnasium, but not quite the size of a basketball stadium. Still, there were dozens and dozens of rows for what would undoubtedly seat hundreds of guests and tourists.
We continued through the arena, which was roped off so that we wouldn’t venture too far astray, and soon found ourselves in the gift shop and cafe, where, I calculated, we would spend more money while waiting for the show to start.
Which is exactly what I did. I spent mine on a Diet Coke served in a pewter mug. I was all too aware that drinking beer in the very same mug would have been heavenly. Except I don’t drink beer anymore—or alcohol of any type. I’m a recovering alcoholic, and some days are easier than others. Today was a hard day. Today I was wishing very earnestly that this beautiful-looking mug was filled with ale or grog or mead, or whatever the hell they called it in this place.
Easy, boy, I thought. Easy.
And so I sat there and watched the dozens of other tourists laughing and smiling and drinking, waiting for the show to start. A show that would feature a man in an iron mask.
I shook my head and drank my Diet Coke and wondered again why I had taken this case. In an hour or so, I would see why.
Boy, would I.
Chapter Four
The show was about to begin.
I was seated at a scarred table on a scarred bench. A few minutes earlier, while I had been nursing my second tankard of Diet Coke, the doors to the arena had burst open and two young men wearing colorful tights stepped out. Next, they solemnly raised their longish horns, trumpeted them a few times—just enough to give me a headache—then announced the tournament was about to begin. I might have detected an English accent or two.
I’d joined the multitudes as we passed through the door and into the dark arena. I’m not a tall guy, and soon found myself surrounded by a lot of shoulders and hair and sullen teenage kids. They split us off into various rows and aisles and somehow I ended up with a seat right smack dab in the middle of the arena, about halfway up.
Waitresses made their rounds between the tiered rows. The waitresses looked a lot like poor serving wenches. They also showed a lot of bosom, which, I was certain, was historically accurate.
Drink orders were taken and soon, another pewter mug of Diet Coke was placed before me, along with a basket of bread and a bowl of tomato bisque soup. Noticeably missing were utensils. Apparently, according to my bosomy waitress and armchair historian, those in the eleventh century didn’t use utensils.
Others seated nearby promptly used their bread to soak up the soup—or simply slurped happily from their bowls. As they say, when in Rome, do as the Romans do...